A mixed bag of babies and a blog

Parenting

08/31/2011

Some days I miss when the girls were babies—when they could fit in the crook of my arm and I had to rock and shush them endlessly before they closed their eyes and sucked in a long breath of sleep. But then I am reminded that Jocelyn is now three.

We had a mother-daughter date yesterday. It wasn’t meant to be a date, since we were going to visit her pediatrician, but she was lit up with excitement from the moment I picked her up from daycare. She talked endlessly in the car about going to see Dr. Lee and about how she would tell Aja all about it. I left the stroller in the car and she walked with me inside, asking me questions about where we were and who was the woman that just walked by, and who is the man across the street. What was that loud noise?

In the waiting room, she sat on my lap and tried to help me fill out paperwork. She nuzzled my neck and in an attempt to make me laugh. The nurse called us in to take her weight and height, and she giggled her way down the hall and shook her booty when I tried to remove her clothes for the examination. She asked repeatedly, “Where’s Dr. Lee?” And as soon as the appointment was over, she asked, “Who was that?”

The survey says that she’s tall and healthy. We celebrated by walking over to Starbucks where I bought her a cup of fruit and an iced latte (for me). We sat at a table and talked. She told me how Dr. Lee looked in her eyes and mouth, and she demonstrated breathing in deep, in and out. She chomped on strawberries and asked when we were going to go back and get Aja.

We topped it all off by heading to the store. At first she was disappointed that we weren’t going to the warmers mahket, but her excitement rose when I put in her the cart. She listed off items she spotted in the aisles, reminding me that she doesn’t like carrots and she agreed that I should buy couscous.

Aja goes for her two-year appointment today. I don’t imagine that it will be a joyous date, especially with the shots that accompany the meal. Oh, and she has turned two. I keep starting a letter to her but I am still in disbelief. For days the page has read, “You are two years old.” To be continued…

08/25/2011

There was an article on Babble today about finding inspiration for (decorating) a little girl's room. The first photo is quite cute and would be nice for Jocelyn and Aja, especially considering they have a love of giraffes. The rest of the slideshow made me want to vomit, with the seventeen shades of pink and assorted canopies and pompoms.

It reminded me of an article I read recently in the New York Times about the photographer James Mollison. He published a book called, "Where Children Sleep." This is an amazing collection of photographs depicting children from around the globe and their bedrooms. It is described as a book about class and poverty, but also one of togetherness. I found the pictures both beautiful and unsettling. I could get political and talk about how unfair it is that one child has a room full of barbies while another sleeps on a mat on the floor under a leaking roof. But I'm really more interested in the ongoing story. A child's room says a lot about their life, but there is also a lot that is missing. My girls' room says a lot about them: their love for animals and their minimalist style. Or, the fact that we have made a purposeful decision to keep decorating to a minimum until we move to another apartment.

To the girls, it doesn't matter whether we add wallpaper or paint the baseboards. Were I to ask Jocelyn what she wants she would no doubt say one thing: pink.

08/22/2011

In parenthood you pick your battles, and one thing I have not cared much to fight over is the pacifier. I suppose you can say potty training too, but this is finally happening. It has not been perfected, but it is happening. I just wasn't going to be one of those people that insisted Jocelyn be potty trained at 18 months because at that time I had a five month old in the other room that was screaming like Linda Blair. And baby Linda helped me to ignore the pacifier in Jocelyn's mouth. Somewhere along the line she named it her papi, and her papi made her calm and happy. It helped her go to sleep and it kept her quiet. And quiet is beautiful before coffee, no matter what time of day.

But it has been time to say goodbye and I've been toying with ways to make the move. I read somewhere that it might work to "break" it by poking a hole in it to decrease the amount of suction. It took more than a poke (yes, I tried it myself). Jocelyn put it in her mouth and scrunched up her face like she sucked on a lemon. "It's broken."

"I'm sorry baby, that's the only one we have." (Yes, I lied)

She put it back in her mouth and kept sucking.

Next on the list was the Papi Fairy. You know, that fairy that comes when you're sleeping and steals your prized possessions. I started to tell her that the Papi Fairy was going to come and collect her papi's and give them to the babies that needed them. "Oh," she said, "the Papi Princess?" Sure. Princess it is. The look on her face said that this needed to be an even exchange, so I told her that the Papi Princess would leave her a present. This peaked her interest and she began talking about it in days leading up to the switch-a-roo. There was even a hint of excitement in her voice.

I took a trip to Target and bought a tutu I had been eyeing for her. I thought it was only fitting that I include a wand, and I threw in a few stickers, since they could be shared with Aja. I decided to include a Thank You card, and a pretty package.

She awoke from her nap and walked into the living room in a daze. I pointed out the package and asked if she knew who it was from.

"Nana?"

"No, the Papi Princess."

Before she could rip into the bag, I opened the card and began to read it to her. "I want to thank you..."

Her face said clearly: Thanks for what? What the hell is this? What are you trying to do to me?

And then she began to cry and yell that she wanted her papi.

We skipped the rest of the card and the words of love and encouragement and went straight for the goods.

Aja was not as excited about the Papi Princess

It remains to be seen if this is really going to work. She insisted on wearing her tutu over her pajamas and she brought her wand to bed. She repeatedly asked for hugs and continued singing and chatting a full hour after we put her to bed. The real test will be if she wakes up in the middle of the night.

I'm not personally loving her love of princesses but I'm chalking it up to being three. A little tiara and pink can't do too much harm, but I'm thinking of creating my own princess. She wears purple and black converse and glasses. I'm going to name her Princess Tuesday. Otherwise known as, Princess "I Can Kick Your Ass This Side of" Tuesday.

08/15/2011

Khary told me last night that he picked up Jocelyn and said to her, “You’re getting so big.” She responded, “I’m fat Daddy.”

At three years old, I don’t believe that she understands what this really means or whether being fat or thin is good or bad. I doubt that she was expressing feelings of low self esteem or that she has spent days or weeks judging her body. But hearing that the words, “I’m fat,” came out of her little mouth broke my heart.

Long before having children I was conscious about what it might mean to raise girls. A former coworker of mine had recounted a story about her niece, who at age six had come home and announced she was on a diet, and from that day on she refused to eat dinner. I was aghast at the idea that a six-year-old knew the definition of the word diet. I thought six was too soon. But three?

My own body image issues revolved around my middle school yearning for boobs that would fill out a B-cup. In high school, I just wanted boys to realize that I was in high school since my baby face said otherwise. But I was tough. I can thank years on the soccer field and an older brother for that. I never hated my body. Even today, in its post-two-babies frame, I feel okay with it. I think content is the word for it. And if there’s anything I want, it’s for both my girls to at least feel the same contentment. If I can instill a love for their bodies then I can present myself with a gold star. Recently, I patted myself on the back when Jocelyn started saying how much she loved her hair—although this may be a result of her love for Sesame Street more than my positive reinforcement.

I told Khary today that we have to watch what we say. I know that he has talked about gaining weight. We both have used the word “diet” to describe how we need to cut back on crappy food. I just want Jocelyn to know that food is good. Food is to be shared. Food is love. We try and eat healthy. At times we don’t. I suppose we need to stop talking about those times as bad times.

I know that building self esteem is a lot about modeling for your children. So I scoured the internet for tips and tricks. Engage your daughter. Spend quality time together. I took the hodgepodge of information and added it to my arsenal of Mom tools. Yet, I was left a bit discouraged. Not because I found things I didn’t want to hear or that I didn’t already know. It was the true realization that Jocelyn will go out in the world and battle things that I cannot fix. People will say and do mean things to her throughout her life. I can tell her a million times that she’s smart and beautiful but she may not always believe it.

We will continue to tell her she’s smart and beautiful and strong and funny. I’m also going to tell her to keep a notebook in her back pocket so she can write down anyone’s names that tell her otherwise. Those people better watch out. You there—boy or girl, whether young or old—that’s my baby you’re talking about. Consider yourself on my shit list.

For life.

Have you had to talk about body image(s) with your children? What do you tell them? Do you think that building self esteem means treating the word "fat" as a type of F-word?

07/25/2011

Now that Jocelyn is three and Aja is nearing her two-year mark, I am able to peek through the fog of babydom and find solace in the fact that I will one day soon get my house back.

They have ripped down blinds in both the kitchen and the living room (Aja). Red crayon has decorated the walls in various rooms (Jocelyn). Cream cheese and peanut butter have been mashed into the fabric of the couch (both). They have broken the knob on the heater (Nana*) and peed on the floor (both).

We once had a corner of the living room dedicated to use as our office. Slowly, as the months ticked by and Jocelyn went from rolling to crawling to walking, the couch inched back closer and closer to the wall, making the office inaccessible for her small hands and her vacuum of a mouth. Of course, the office is now just as inaccessible for Khary and I, and I now use the couch as my desk, which has done wonders for my ass.

My friend Sarah showed her son pictures of the girls in preparation for our upcoming stay at their house. He stared at picture after picture of my sweet girls and then said to her, “Ok, the little one can have my bed. But not that big sister. She looks like she would tear things up!”

Little does he know the destruction that can occur at the hands of little Aja.

In an effort to de-clutter and inch a step closer to the day when we can reclaim our home, we did a small purge of toys. Stuffed animals that they have ignored and the small odds and ends that fell to the bottom of the toy box were packed up under the cover of darkness. Had they seen this organizational feat they would have suddenly rediscovered their love of that dirty rabbit rattle that hasn’t been touched in over a year. I am contemplating a second undercover raid to see what will be missed. We have a finite amount of time before they start memorizing where each toy belongs.

I am not a highly organized person, but I still dream of the day when I can use areas of the house as they were originally intended—when I can unblock the hallways, and place the lamp, which is currently located behind a bookshelf in the corner, next to the couch and I won’t have to worry about it getting knocked over.

Of course, damage at the hands of my children will occur for years to come, but in different ways. I am guilty of spilling nail polish remover on my mother’s end tables when I was fifteen or sixteen, taking the wood finish right off with the cotton balls I used to mop it up.

As long as they stop peeing on the floor.

*Nana only contributed to the knob of the heater loosening and eventually being ripped off by Aja. She did, however, break our toaster, so she will forever be next in line if we’re looking to place blame. This is done out of love.

*

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